


i've woken up on one too many floors (but my favorite was yours)

by turnpikedarling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Scott, Roommates, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnpikedarling/pseuds/turnpikedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, dude,” Stiles tells him, planting his hands on the back of the couch and vaulting over it into the hallway of the apartment they’re currently trying to move into. It’s their first apartment together, some shitty little thing Stiles found on Craigslist and sent to Scott in a frantic email. It took Scott less than a second to realize he’d follow Stiles anywhere, and then all of a sudden: a month later they were roping Isaac and Erica and Boyd into helping them move hand-me-down furniture across town, and now here they are, trying to figure out what to do with this disgusting couch that neither of them really wants, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've woken up on one too many floors (but my favorite was yours)

**Author's Note:**

> for my least favorite person in the world, [tulipkid](http://www.tulipkid.tumblr.com).
> 
> unbeta'd! let me know if you see any mistakes, and apologies if they are many and varied.
> 
> title from the lucksmiths' song "[there is a boy who never goes out.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=omjNXvTFh_g)" come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.mickeyed.tumblr.com)

“Look,” Scott says, staring at the couch sitting in the foyer in front of him. He flicks his eyes from the arms of the overstuffed thing to the doorframe it’s jammed into and then back to the pillows; the sofa is clearly too wide to make it through without some serious damage, but Stiles still looks hopeful.

“I’m not saying it’s not going to fit,” Scott continues, “But it’s not going to fit.”

“Come on, dude,” Stiles tells him, planting his hands on the back of the couch and vaulting over it into the hallway of the apartment they’re currently trying to move into. It’s their first apartment together, some shitty little thing Stiles found on Craigslist and sent to Scott in a frantic email. It took Scott less than a second to realize he’d follow Stiles anywhere, and then all of a sudden: a month later they were roping Isaac and Erica and Boyd into helping them move hand-me-down furniture across town, and now here they are, trying to figure out what to do with this disgusting couch that neither of them really wants, anyway.

“Have a little faith,” Stiles smirks, and then he’s gone, disappeared somewhere into the bowels of the apartment. Scott steps over the couch and sees the last of his foot as it darts into the basement, and then the kitchen is empty.

Scott looks around for a minute, settles himself into his new home. It doesn’t feel like that just yet, not really. It’s going to be a little while before he really knows it, before he can come home and it will smell right, but the clatter of Stiles banging around in whatever’s down in storage reminds him that he won’t be alone, at least. He doesn’t have to do this without Stiles.

Scott takes a breath and lets out his claws, shucks off his shoes. This is theirs now, and he wants to trace it, to feel it in his hands. He runs a nail along the windowsills, paces the small breadth of the living room, sticks his toes in the tub. He probably won’t ever sit his bare ass down in it, it’s too dirty for that, but he likes the feel of the cool tile under his skin in the moment of peace before Stiles comes crashing back upstairs. He’ll be all breathless and flying limbs before he settles back into himself, the calm and collected kid he’s had to become through all the shit they’ve faced. This kind of unbridled joy, this newness, it happens so much less for both of them now; it’s hard to break through the heaviness of their lives sometimes. 

Scott likes it when Stiles is like this, excitement brimming over and pushing through the grown-up facade. It’s not like Scott feels like an adult, anyway; he still can’t believe he’s going to have to start cooking his own meals and learning how to load a dishwasher. More than anything, he can’t believe someone _trusts_ the two of them to do any of it. _Safely_ , that is. 

He circles back around to the kitchen, and as soon as he bends down to open the dishwasher to make sure it isn’t rusted out, Scott hears Stiles clambering up the stairs.

“I got it,” Stiles yells, and when Scott turns around he lets out a full-belly laugh.

Stiles is standing there in the doorway between the basement and the creepy-ass hallway, backlit and looking maniacal against the peeling and ancient wallpaper, with an old rusted saw in one hand and the other raised in triumph.

“We’re going to saw the legs off of this shit,” Stiles says.

“Of course we are,” Scott answers.

Of course they are.

///

Three legs in, standing in the middle of a pile of sawdust and wood shavings and the shirts they’d thrown on the ground, Stiles looks up and says, “Hold on, buddy.” He reaches down and twists his wrist a little to the right and the last leg just pops out, barely even a dent cut into it yet.

“So what you’re telling me,” Scott says, smiling through his stupor, one arm slung over his forehead in exhaustion, “Is that we could have just screwed the legs off to begin with.”

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, holding it up sheepishly. 

“Listen, we are never going to tell my mom about this, okay?” Scott asks, flinging himself over the arm of the sofa.

“Like my dad’s on the list of people who need to know about this,” Stiles answers, and then he flops down onto the couch and they sleep for hours.

///

Their first night is low-key, by their standards.

After they wake up, tired legs and stale breath even after just a short nap, Stiles tests the shower and screams at Scott through the door.

“The pressure’s good, dude,” Stiles yells as Scott pulls out the one pot they have and puts it on the stove. He turns the dial and lights a match and throws it warily at the burner, hoping it’ll catch without him having to put his hand near it. Healing capabilities or no, he’s not interested in putting his hand near leaking gas and an open flame.

He pads over to the sink and turns the hot water all the way on and yells back, “How about now?” 

Stiles yelps and Scott smirks to himself.

“Asshole,” Stiles screams, and Scott cracks open a can of crushed tomatoes and drops them into the quickly-heating pot.

He’s not used to this yet, cooking for himself, more a fan of shitty takeout and Chinese food and mom-made meals than anything he knows how to make, but he figures he can make a simple tomato sauce and boil some water for pasta, and even if it tastes like ass he knows Stiles will eat it. He’s not wrong about that, at least.

A few minutes later, as he’s shaking some oregano in with the tomatoes - Melissa had at least stocked their spices, sent them to their new home with some pantry staples and tupperware containers and plastic utensils - Scott hears the water shut off and the slick drop of Stiles’ feet on the tile floor. They’ve got to get a bathmat, he reminds himself, and then wonders how weird it is that he’s thinking about that kind of shit now.

“Dinner’s in five,” Scott tells Stiles as he walks by, just a towel slung around his waist and dripping water all over the floor. Scott reaches out and smacks his hip as he walks by and Stiles flings an arm out and slaps his cheek in return, shooting him a smile as he rounds the corner into his room.

It’s easy with them, the physicality, always has been. They punch each other, smack each other’s asses, stick their fingers up each other’s noses. Well, that one’s more Scott. It’s just that Stiles gets surprised every time, and Scott thinks it’s probably never going to get old, that little gasp of air and then indignant snort as he gives in and lets it happen.

“Bro,” Scott calls, waddling over with full hands and kicking at Stiles’ door when the food’s done. “Eat up.”

They eat their dinner out of plastic bowls on the living room floor, staring at the bare walls and arguing about whose posters are going to go where, and they talk about how Stiles wants to keep all of his signed _Lord of the Rings_ movie posters he shelled out for laminated but on display, how they should probably buy mattresses soon, how air beds get uncomfortable, how much they like that the previous owners left a stock of solo cups in the pantry.

Stiles gets tired early but makes a big show about cleaning up the kitchen.

“You made dinner, Scott,” he says when Scott tries to help him, offers to dry. “That means _I_ do the dishes. You sit your pretty little ass down and put your feet up.”

“Sit down?” Scott asks. “Where?”

Stiles laughs and makes a sweeping gesture toward the empty room, bows a little. “Anywhere, asshole, take your pick,” he answers, and punctuates it with a punch to Scott’s arm.

“We should probably get a kitchen table,” Scott says as he slides down the wall. 

He spends the next fifteen minutes kicking his feet out at Stiles’ heels, tripping him, making him eat linoleum. Breaking in their new place the way it was meant to be.

///

In the middle of the night, Scott wakes up to the sound of his door slamming open and he sees Stiles coming ass-first into the room, dragging his air mattress in with him. He throws it down on the floor unceremoniously and drops down onto it, tugs the blanket up over him and rolls onto his side.

“Hey,” he says, blinking at Scott in the darkness. Scott can see him perfectly, the little twitch of his nose, the way his fingers curl tightly around the pillow he brought with him.

“Was cold,” Stiles tells him, and Scott just nods and makes their two blankets one big one, two layers, werewolf heat trapped in against Stiles’ legs. 

“Sure,” he answers, and Stiles lets his eyes fall shut as he burrows his feet against Scott’s legs. He sounds peaceful, so Scott lets it go, lets himself believe he’s enough calm for them both, even if just for the night. He drifts off with his head pillowed on his arm, facing Stiles, their feet parallel and touching at the toes.

Scott likes the closeness. The beds stay like that for months.

///

When he wakes up, Scott decides to test the shower for himself. He’s still sticky from the sweat of moving in, rings of dirt around his neck and wrists, grains of something crunchy shoved up under his nails. He doesn’t usually shower more than once a week, but this is pushing it.

He pushes up off the bed and looks at Stiles, trying to make sure he hasn’t woken him. Stiles is sunk unusually low to the ground, enveloped in the air mattress like it’s a blanket instead of a platform - his hip has to be touching the floor, and Scott figures there must be a leak, a break somewhere they didn’t know about. He makes a mental note to get some sealant and then shuffles toward the bathroom.

The shower’s good, he gets to wake up slowly - neither of them have ever been morning people, and his new surroundings keep throwing him off. The only constant is Stiles. Scott soaps himself down and lets the lather rinse down his shins as the water hits it, watches it swirl around the drain until it’s gone.

Somewhere in the middle, Stiles comes padding into the room and stands there, staring at himself in the mirror, poking at his face in the dim light of the dirty bulb.

“Dude?” Scott asks.

“I think,” Stiles says, pausing again to get even closer to the mirror, examining his face like it’s barely even his own. “I think I slept so hard my face actually concaved. I think I’m concave. Is that a word? That’s a word, right? Can a person be it?”

Scott leans out of the spray and slicks a palm across one of the glass panels, makes a little window for himself to see through the condensation.

“Come here,” he says, and Stiles turns around and shoves his face up against the side of the shower.

“I’m concave, man,” Stiles laments, and Scott laughs. It’s muffled by the sound of the water and he squints at his friend, taps on the window.

“I think you’ll be fine,” he answers, and he turns his face back into the downpour.

“If you don’t hurry up in there, I’m climbing in with you,” Stiles warns before sweeping out the door.

Scott ignores the fact that Stiles showered yesterday so showering this morning would be excessive. He just stands there letting the heat wash over him and rinse the suds from his hair. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and makes sure they’re clear before he tips his head back and admits that he wouldn’t mind it, so much, Stiles there in front of him, hogging the warm water and crowding into his space.

It’s not a new thought he’s entertaining, not really. Newer than their friendship, but months old at this point. Still a little confusing. Still a little silly and scary, both. Sometimes Scott gets lost in him - the little things, sure, the gross way he likes strawberry milk on his cereal and the way he pulls at the tips of his hair when he’s thinking. The way he doesn’t hesitate before smacking Scott right back, the way his sarcasm is laced with love. But it’s everything else, more, the way Scott knows he’s alive because of Stiles - that’s what stops Scott in the middle of a breath, sometimes, knowing that there’s someone holding him up without questions, without expectations, without any hope for anything but the same. Knowing that the someone is Stiles. That’s important. It couldn’t be just anyone, not really, not even a little bit - not at all.

Scott dips forward again, braces a hand on the wall and thanks God that Stiles can’t smell the way he does. He buries his dick in his fist and tugs hard and comes into the spray of the shower a minute later, a soft smile on his face, worn out and happy and starting to feel at home.

///

Their first few weeks look like that: quiet and sure, two boys fumbling into life, each one carving out a space for the other even deeper in their hearts.

After that first time, Stiles gives up on his air mattress. He jumps in next to Scott on the second night and shrugs, moving the blankets with him.

“‘S a leak,” he says, and Scott doesn’t argue. He just tucks in closer to the wall and opens his chest, turns up toward the ceiling and breathes in and out. This is a whole new kind of thing, for them, but Scott can’t tell if that’s just on his end. If the sudden spike in tension is just in his head. They’ve shared beds before, shared closer spaces, shared life threatening situations and faced death, but this is a soft kind of sharp that feels warm when it twists in Scott’s gut, important and delicate all at once.

But they do it every night - Stiles clambers in and Scott scooches over and they breathe until they can’t hear each other breathing anymore. Sometimes they talk about everything: pack and Marvel and in-season clementines and the black mold forming at the base of the radiator. Sometimes they just dig their fingers into the mattress, closer and closer together, until there’s no pressure anywhere except their pinkies.

In the morning, Scott showers and Stiles barges in and they build a life like that.

Scott gets a job. Stiles gets a job. They don’t buy a mattress.

A few weeks in, everyone shows up unannounced on their doorstep and trudges in and makes themselves at home.

“We brought casserole!” Allison sing-songs as she brushes past Stiles through the door.

“And vodka,” Erica adds as she kisses Scott on the cheek. 

Isaac sits down on the couch before anyone can warn him and it topples backward, falls down off of the makeshift props they’d figured out: stacks of _Hardy Boys_ books they’d stashed since they were kids, one on top of the other and holding the shorn legs up.

Scott’s surprised by the fact that having them there doesn’t make the place feel more like home. It feels more settled, maybe, feels warmer. It smells more like pack with Derek sunk into the oversized chair and Lydia’s feet propped on the coffee table, Boyd standing watch over the oven as the casserole bubbles and Erica and Allison standing in Stiles’ unused room and doing a little imaginary interior decorating, and he likes that. But it’s different now in a way that only Allison and Stiles understand; everyone else’s quiet feels separate now, existing side by side but never overlapping except to bring them together.

Allison takes Scott aside at one point in the middle of the evening, tucks her hand under his arm and leans against his side as they stare at the room in front of them, their friends, their family settling in. 

“I like it here,” she sighs, bringing her other hand up and squeezing at his shoulder. “It feels lived in.”

“It better,” Scott laughs, turning his nose into her temple and pressing a kiss there. “Stiles throws his shit everywhere, so that better be worth something.”

Allison snorts and tilts her chin toward Stiles. He’s sitting in the corner of the couch, legs draped over Isaac and head bent backward over the arm to spar with Derek, eyebrows raised in a challenge and brandishing a cheese stick for emphasis. 

“He likes it here too,” she says, resting her head on Scott’s shoulder. “He seems happy.”

“I think we both are, sometimes,” Scott answers, and Allison nods like she knows the rest of the sentence.

By the time they leave, all shuffling out the door with promises not to be so long about it next time - and they’re not, they’re all back in groups within two days, Isaac shows up with some running shoes and then takes a weekend to leave - Scott realizes that the apartment was already what it needed to be: theirs. His and Stiles’ place. Somewhere they can keep the dark out, build a new city of brothers, hold each other together and thrive.

///

The next morning when Scott’s in the shower, Stiles tumbles into the bathroom and this time he’s totally naked. He leans back against one outside wall of the shower and groans dramatically.

“Dude, I haven’t showered in three days and you’re using all the hot water. What gives,” he whines.

“Your ass cheeks are literally all up in my business,” Scott answers, because he has no idea what else to say. Stiles’ ass is pressed up against the glass, smushed flat and sprinkled with moles, and it’s nothing Scott hasn’t seen before, but - it’s there and he’s showering and his dick is easy enough as it is. It doesn’t need any help getting where it wants to go.

“My ass is a gift to humanity,” Stiles counters, and far be it from Scott to argue.

“I’ll be out in a second,” Scott sighs, carding his hands through his hair and smoothing conditioner over the tips.

Stiles steps around the side of the shower and yanks the door open, lets it creak and scrape as he pushes it flush against the wall.

“Second’s up, dude, come on, the water’s already going lukewarm. Get out,” he yells. He looks frustrated, fond, a little exasperated and happy, and Scott likes the realization that he’s the reason for it.

So Scott looks Stiles up and down, takes in his buzzing skin and tapping fingers, his skinny thighs and half-hard dick, and before he can stop himself he says, “No, you get in.”

“What?” 

Stiles looks confused, but Scott just reaches out and punches him on the arm and says, “Dude, don’t make it weird, just get in.” He presses back against the wall to make enough space, tucks his arms into his chest so Stiles can slide by. Then they’re both in, limbs drawn, water falling between them and staring at each other through the stream.

“I said don’t make it weird,” Scott says, and he reaches for the shampoo on the shelf behind Stiles. “Here,” he says, offering the end of the bottle, upturned and ready to flip open.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, and he holds out his hand. They stay like that for a few minutes, eyes locked as they soap down, quiet except for the pounding of the water on the shower floor, the creaky pipes pushing as hard as they can to keep them from freezing. 

Stiles lathers up his hair, scrubs his nails down into his skull and shakes them, drags them over his head as he drops his eyes and stares intently at a spot on Scott’s shoulder. Scott smiles, laughs at them, the way they’re suddenly careful when they’re naked, and then he knows - in that moment, the discomfort, the subtle shift - that he can have everything he wants. He beams, opens his bright eyes and lets the stream flood them until he can’t see, and he reaches out a hand and slaps it softly against the side of Stiles’ head.

“You missed a spot,” Scott says, nuzzling his hand into the hair there before letting it drop.

Stiles still looks dumbstruck, a little hesitant, so when Scott leans forward to put the shampoo back he moves in and crowds into Stiles’ space and slides their mouths together slowly. It’s wet and messy, shower water collecting like tide pools under their tongues, and Scott has to lean Stiles back against the tile wall to get out of the way of the spray, to breathe through his nose enough not to faint from it all. He pins Stiles there just enough - Stiles could tip a shoulder and be out of it, but it doesn’t seem like he’s making any moves to - and dips his tongue past Stiles’ lips. When Stiles opens for him, pink mouth bruising back, Scott forgets his grip entirely and drops the shampoo. He startles backward and Stiles follows.

“Are you,” Stiles breathes, pushing them out the other side of the water stream, “Are you telling me that we could have been touching each other’s dicks this whole time?” He shoves at Scott’s shoulder, knocks it into the glass behind him and drops his hand between them. “You’re such an asshole,” Stiles mutters, and then he’s got a hand around them both, still slick with shampoo, and it’ll do.

“Not the whole time,” Scott corrects him, laughing, barely breathing out his words as Stiles runs his thumb over the head of Scott’s cock. It feels right, like the two of them: idiot boys in a shower using shampoo for lube, first kiss and first hand job in thirty seconds, feet scrabbling against a tile floor so they don’t fall and crack their heads open. Scott splays a hand out against the small of Stiles’ back; he knows he’d be the only one who could heal if they did tumble.

Scott tips his head forward, rests it in the crook of Stiles’ neck as he breathes in and out with every stroke, every tensing of his belly, every laugh he punches out into his best friend’s skin. From this angle, Scott can watch Stiles’ long, thin fingers, can see his broad palm slide down and squeeze the base of Scott’s dick.

“This is like one of those art pornos,” Scott says, laughing through a rise of tension in his cock as Stiles speeds up. “Like soft lighting and shit, upscale piano music in the background.”

Stiles lets go of his own cock, focuses on Scott and kisses him hard. He pulls away to trail down the slick skin of Scott’s neck and says, “It’s always so boring, you can’t even hear the people fucking in those.”

“Shit,” Scott bites out, and Stiles smears the beading precome down Scott’s dick and tugs a few more times, a little too hard, just for show.

“Stiles,” Scott breathes, and he’s not a religious person but it sounds sort of like a bastardized plea even to his own ears. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” he whispers, finally leaning his head back against the wall again, too overwhelmed to hold it up, too taken by the twist of Stiles’s wrist and his skittish fingertips.

Stiles just smirks, looks Scott in the eye before dipping down to bite into the flesh of his shoulder, the muscle there, and as his teeth sink in Scott spills all over his fingers. He doesn’t even try to hold back his startled shout.

“Come on, Scotty,” Stiles coaxes, pulling him through it as he holds him up. “Come on, Scotty.”

Scott laughs as soon as he can breathe again, shoves his hand into Stiles’ shoulder and flings him backward, back through the spray and across the shower. Stiles lands with a dull thud and a smile, slow and dark, the head of his dick still leaking. Scott smears his thumb across his bottom lip and tastes his own come, sucks it in like it’s lemonade. It’s half because he’s curious and half because Stiles’ knees buckle, and that’s a game that Scott’s going to have way too much fun playing. 

"I mean, while we're on a roll," Scott says. He ducks his head and looks up at Stiles, water from his hair dripping into his eyes.

After a pause, a little too long, some staring that should be awkward but isn't, Stiles tells him, "Scott, you don't have to."

Scott laughs. He drops his gaze to Stiles' cock, flushed red and curved up against his belly. Scott wants to get his mouth on it, slide his lips down around it and finally find out what sucking dick feels like. He blushes, just from warmth and a settled happy feeling in his bones, and says, “No, I just don’t want to drown.”

Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stiles move so fast in his life, and they’ve run from things that go bump in the night that were literally trying to kill them. It seems fitting, for them: preserve your life at all costs but go even harder for blowjobs. Sounds about right. 

Stiles leaps out of the shower and stands there staring at Scott. He looks like even he’s not sure how he got out there so fast, looks a little guilty for how badly he obviously wants it. But Scott laughs and follows him out, pushes him back up against the door and ignores the pool forming at his feet and the still-running shower. Scott kneels down and finally understands the _real_ purpose of bathmats. 

He takes a minute to look up at Stiles, get his bearings, and remember that it’s just the two of them. His knees may be knocking against terry cloth and tile but it smells like home, the naked boy in front of him smells like home, and Scott buries his nose in the space below Stiles’ hip, nudges the curls there and breathes in.

Scott blows Stiles slow and sweet, takes his learning curve seriously and doesn’t try to swallow him down to the base. It’s messy, his lips spit-slick and raw, and he doesn’t have any tricks yet so he pops off with a sick sound toward the end, when he knows Stiles is getting close, and murmurs, “Sorry, this is my first time.”

Stiles comes all over his face without warning and doesn’t even apologize. Scott doesn’t mind. That’s an understatement - he loves it, drags his fingers through it, rubs them together as Stiles watches through a post-orgasmic haze.

They stay there like that for awhile, the sound of the shower in the background to fill the silence. Scott grabs Stiles’ hand and drags him down to the floor with them, sits both of their bare asses down on the bathmat and leans his head on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles gets a hand in Scott’s hair and tugs. He plays with it forever, just grabbing pieces and pulling softly, carding his hands through it, until Scott laughs and says, “Come on,” and they turn the shower off and tumble into bed.

That night when they sleep, they wrap themselves in each other like an emergency blanket, like they’ll be pulled under otherwise, and they wake up with their noses pressed together and they smile when they kiss each other out of sleep.

///

It takes them months to get a bed. Even then - they get a bedframe and a mattress and skip the boxspring part, and it’s only because Allison eventually corners them and tells them that they have to be adults about this.

She’s over for lunch one Saturday with Lydia when she stops with her fork midway to her mouth and says, “Are you guys _still_ sleeping on that air mattress?”

“The other one has a leak,” Stiles mumbles around a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

“That’s not an excuse anymore,” Lydia points out, and she gets up to pour herself a glass of water.

“It can’t be comfortable,” Allison adds, and Scott just smiles.

“Heat,” Stiles says around another mouthful, and then he swallows. “We don’t even have to turn our heat on. I just sleep next to him and I’m good. God bless werewolves.”

“I like it,” Scott says, “Plus it’s cheaper this way. And touching, you know - I mean, you know,” Scott finishes, and Allison nods. She does. She knows how much easier it is with someone by your side.

“You should at least get a real mattress,” Lydia tells them as she sits back down.

“At the very least, you know you won’t pop a hole in it when you’re fucking,” Allison adds, and Stiles chokes on a piece of crust.

Scott laughs and tips his glass to her. They buy a mattress the next day.


End file.
